I’m reciting poetry to my husband. And wowzers – does he look good in a sweater vest. He also looks amazing in that Robert Downey Jr. costume.

Our perfect child is sitting between us, perfectly still, eating perfect little sandwiches (crusts and all) that I made this morning after my night shift at the orphanage.

Our dog is lying at the edge of the checkered cloth that I crocheted last night in between writing chapters of another bestselling novel. She is freshly bathed and groomed, is not begging for food, and she does not have shit crusted to the hair around her asshole.

Our picnic basket is brimming with money. (Good luck carrying this sucker away, ants.) Because there is not enough room at the bank. And our mattress is too full of other things, like tender moments and passion and stuff.

My cell phone is switched off, because this perfect moment shant be tainted by a beep or a ding. I’ll check my messages later to learn about my promotion, and lotto winnings, and that my father’s death was all a hoax, and men can finally give birth.

And hot diggity, is someone hiding the melons from our picnic lunch inside my shirt? Look at these puppies. Sculpted (and reshaped post-breastfeeding) by the hand of God.